


Still Life

by MnemonicMadness



Series: M's long(-ish) Rinch fics [1]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: A Lot of Dadmin Feels, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bullshit Science, Canon Compliant, Caring Machine, Crying, Cryogenics, Dadmin feels, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Fix-It, Fluff, Future Fic, Getting Together, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, Hugging, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Series, Romance, Shhh don't question it, blatant medical bullshit, post return 0, pretentious literature quoting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-07 02:31:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11049453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MnemonicMadness/pseuds/MnemonicMadness
Summary: Five years after the war has been won, the Machine asks Harold to investigate an abandoned building just outside of New York.





	Still Life

**Author's Note:**

> It's been really hot here the last few days and I felt like writing something winter-y. So this happened.
> 
> Tee, as always you have been such a great help. You are absolutely amazing and I don't know what I'd do without you (still write an average of 3k in a good month, probably)! ♥♥♥
> 
> Disclaimer: All the typos are mine, but that's it.

The sun had already begun to set by the time Harold neared the compound a few miles off the highway, just outside of New York city. He had planned to reach it in full daylight, but he unwisely had underestimated the New Yorkers' propensity to causing a ludicrous level of chaos on the city's streets as soon as the first snow had fallen. One would hope that the city's inhabitants would eventually learn to handle this yearly occurrence, but their inability to drive in winter seemed to be one of the few constants in the universe.

At least this lead to the highway being nearly deserted – with most being uncertain to even drive in the city, few dared attempt longer distances and the rush of Christmas was still weeks away. Outside his car, the landscape passed by painted in white, grey and orange, the last rays of the winter sun sparkling on the freshly fallen and undisturbed first snow of the year, glowing like embers.

There was something about the first snow of the year. Something that made the world feel like it was holding its breath and to take a moment to just pause. A sense of timeless awe and a quiet that one was instinctively reluctant to disturb, the only ones excepted being the children whose laughter filled the air as they tried to catch the floating crystals with their tongue. The moment before anticipation, before the wait for Christmas began. Stillness. A frozen quiet.

It was moments like this that sometimes made him miss Italy. Miss Grace's smile in the morning when he came down for breakfast in the kitchen of the small house they had shared for a while after he had returned to her. Miss her warm and freely given hugs when they had met up for lunch or coffee almost daily one he'd found a place of his own. Miss Italy's warm sun and cool breezes and mild winters.

But after two years spent in Italy recovering, first from his physical wound and then from his much deeper mental ones, the restlessness that had been like an itch in the back of his traumatised mind had grown too strong to ignore. And with it, it had brought a terrible homesickness. So almost three years ago now, he had returned to New York.

It didn't erase his homesickness. A part of what made that place home had been taken from him what would in two days be five years ago. But even if returning hadn't cured his longing, it did make it more bearable. At first, he had avoided certain places – Chinatown, Queensboro bridge, the _library_ – in fear of reopening the wounds of his heart that felt like they had only just scabbed over. Instead once he had finally gathered the courage to seek them out, he found them to act like a soothing balm for his raw soul. They made him feel closer to what – whom – he had lost. Only his fear of rooftops had remained.

He gave a moment's consideration to calling Grace but dismissed it. As much as he wished for the comfort of a conversation with his best friend, it was still too early in Italy. He would call her later.

“ _There's a right-hand turn just ahead, signposted as private property. Take that one.”_ the Machine's voice instructed him quietly.

As delighted at he had been to learn of her survival after he had re-assumed his old Wren alias, they didn't converse much. Root's voice might belong to her now, the reasoning of which he understood and agreed with, but he couldn't help the small sting of pain whenever she spoke. It would lessen over time, it already had, but he knew it would never completely fade.

“Thank you.”

A few hundred yards further down, there it was, a narrow accommodation road subtly settled into the bank, built deliberately in a way it would be all too easily overlooked by passing cars if one wasn't actively looking for it. The signs at the entrance designating it as private property were a muted, unobtrusive brown. He slowed and ignored them, his car making a soft bump when he switched roads, turning away from the highway. Just out of sight from the highway was another set of signs, one on each side of the road, these ones bigger and in neon yellow but rusted, one of them bent. Abandoned.

The further he drove, the more light was swallowed by the thickening woods around him. Or perhaps the sun had merely finally set. The accommodation road made a sharp turn to the left, then another back to the right, winding itself in small curves instead of going straight as it had at first. The woods surrounding him were eerily still. At the sides bushes had begun to grow in, reclaiming the tarred area. It reminded him of a book, one of his precious first edition he'd found still intact when he had first re-entered the library.

“Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again...” he murmured its famous first line to distract himself.

The Machine chuckled over the speakers. _“_ _The drive wound away in front of_ _me, twisting and turning as it had always done, but as I advanced I was aware that a change had come upon it; it was narrow and unkempt, not the drive that we had known. Nature had come into her own again and, little by little, in her stealthy, insidious way had encroached upon the drive with long, tenacious fingers.”_ she recited in a deliberately fake British accent, amusement colouring her voice.

He couldn't help but smile – the motion felt oddly foreign on his face these days – glancing fondly at the camera of his phone where it was clipped into its holder. “Yes, exactly.”

“ _Don't worry, Harry. This place has been abandoned for years. I promise you're safe.”_ She hesitated, tone filling with genuine concern. _“Or do you want me to call Sameen or Lionel?”_

“No, thank you, it's quite alright. Let them focus on their number. It's merely a bit... eery.”

There was a reassuring normalcy to the knowledge that the numbers still kept coming, even if he only rarely worked with Sameen and Lionel – and Bear – at them. With the Machine's more direct support, they often were fine without his help, at least if it went beyond the financial. The occasional times he did help them left him feeling emotionally exhausted for days. It was still fulfilling to help protect innocent people but always left him with an aftertaste of the hollow pain of something missing. It wasn't the same without... without _him_. He much preferred to meet them at cafés, enjoying the company of the few people who knew what he had been through, had lived through it with him.

“ _I think it's beautiful. It's so quiet and untouched. There is always so much happening, every minute, every second, every day. Everywhere. This seems... peaceful.”_

He knew she was only trying to distract him, but he found himself genuinely grateful for her effort. “I suppose it does have a certain aesthetic to it. Wait, how can you even see here? Have you appropriated a satellite?”

His creation chuckled again. _“No, although I could. Your car's parking assistant includes a camera.”_

If silence could contain the sound of a cheeky, smug smile, this was what it sounded like. He didn't have it in him to be irritated, not about the Machine just being who she was. Not anymore. All he felt was a resigned amusement as he softly, jokingly berated her “I didn't include a parking assistant in my order.”

“ _No, you didn't.”_ , she admitted. He didn't believe the sheepishness in her tone for one second.

Silence fell over them again, a companionable one. This time his surroundings seemed considerably less eery, he no longer felt alone. After a few more minutes' drive, the woods finally began to clear, giving way to the dark, looming silhouette of an abandoned warehouse. It really did feel reminiscent of the novel's infamous mansion. Even if it was merely a plain warehouse rather than a glamorous English country estate, it had the same air of sinister mystery to it. Perhaps it would have been different during the day.

“There was Manderley, our Manderley, secretive and silent as it had always been.” he quoted to himself. The Machine remained silent as he parked the car a few yards away from the entrance – _parking assistant_... He shook his head disbelievingly. – and turned the motor off.

Gathering his clothes from the passenger seat he put on his hat and wrapped his favourite, soft cashmere scarf – _he_ had given it to Harold as a Christmas gift once – snugly around his neck. He stuffed the keys into the pocket of his pants and his gloves into that of his coat, bundled the latter under one arm, grabbed his phone and climbed painfully out of the vehicle. His hip and neck protested, the deep scar on his abdomen twinged. With every passing year now he felt like he lost more and more of his remaining flexibility. He gasped in pain when he straightened once outside, but the cold was strangely refreshing.

He retrieved the bag containing his laptop and a few other things, pulled on his coat and gloves and locked the car out of force of habit – not that anyone was around to steal it. They hadn't encountered a single person ever since driving onto the accommodation road and the Machine had kept reassuring him that this place was deserted ever since she had asked him to take this trip earlier today.

“I suppose you are not going to tell me what I'm supposed to find in that building?”

“ _Honestly, I'm not completely sure myself. But you'll know it when you see it.”_ she answered unhelpfully, her voice thin and slightly distorted over his phone's speaker. He didn't have the heart to use the earpiece he carried in his wallet. Not when it wasn't _him_ on the other side.

With a huff he limped over to the steel door, the unmarred snow muting his steps, stepping close to the keypad to take a close look at it. Definitely one of the better models, but not a real hindrance. He balanced his laptop on one arm while fishing the adapter cable out of the bag, connecting it to the keypad. With a few keystrokes, the long-unused keypad lit up. The look of triumph that had stolen itself onto Harold's face melted away and a shudder of fear ran down his damaged body. There on the keypad was a simple, unadorned writing of two words:

Decima Technologies

He looked around but the area was still as deserted as it had been. Fighting the instinct to hurry back to his car and leave this place, his voice shook slightly when he addressed his creation again. “Are you sure it is safe here?”

“ _Absolutely! I wouldn't have allowed you to come here alone if I wasn't! This place has been abandoned for nearly four years. The electrical wiring is still intact and there's a functioning generator, but no one has been here since then. There are no additional security measures or active motion sensors and Sameen has taken care of most of Decima's operatives who survived the war. The few that are left are scattered to the four winds. They pose no threat. It's safe.”_

Taking a deep breath to calm himself, he nodded. After all they had been through, his Machine had more than earned his faith. “Alright.”

The program he'd written years and years ago took barely more than a minute to decipher the code. All he had to do was copy the numbers into the keypad and the heavy steel door opened with a soft mechanical hum and click. The air inside was just as cold as outside but dry and smelling of dust. It was pitch dark, the warehouse being windowless, but a brief examination of the wall close to the doorway with the torch on his phone revealed a light switch.

Nothing happened for a second, then the fluorescent tubes mounted in even rows on the ceiling flickered on with a high-pitched, crystalline sound. Dust danced in the air in their cold light, giving the single, gigantic room that had once been a storage area the appearance of lying in a light fog.

A shiver ran down his spine. This – the big screen at the front of the room to his right, the rows of uniform desks at regular distances, chairs pushed underneath and desk lamps on top of them just as identical, all of them facing the screen – practically screamed of Decima's signature. It was incredibly similar to their headquarters and those were memories he'd really rather avoid. Memories that led to those of the end of their hidden war, memories that led to a vault and to a rooftop, to losing _him_.

“ _Harry?”_ Once again she sounded worried.

He swallowed. He wasn't here to wallow in his worst memories and make the hole that had been ripped into his heart on that rooftop bleed again. “I'm alright.” With another deep breath he stepped fully inside, closing the steel door behind him.

As far as he could see, there were only the desks and the screen on his right – nothing of interest. To his left however, in the back of the hall, were rows of servers, obviously not running, but blocking the view to approximately a quarter of the space. The power cables of the desk lamps and the bundle of thicker ones for the screens were running towards there. The generator had to be there.

Clutching his phone in one hand, his laptop in the other and the bag dangling on his arm, he made his way past the desks across the room stepping over cables and breathing dust, his uneven steps echoing in the hall, his soon quickening breaths fogging in the air. There were three more doors in the wall, the men's and the ladies' room, and a third, locked one. If he didn't find anything in the back of the room, this was the one he'd try next.

As he neared the servers, a low, electrical hum soon became audible and confirmed his suspicion that the generator had to be behind them, the servers themselves were protected by a low wall of insulating materials surrounding the area like a small shack. Without that, it would have been lunacy to keep both those heat-generating devices so close to one another.

There was another keypad next to the door that allowed access to the walled- off area behind the insulation, although he did not quite see the point of that. Insulation rarely made for decent building material and given sufficient time, motivation and some kind of tool, even he could probably simply have broken through it. Of course cracking the code like he'd done with the front door was a much quicker and more elegant solution. There was a strange but not unpleasant thrill to working like this again, doing some legwork, even if it was with only his Machine accompanying him.

As soon as he opened the door, the hum got quite a bit louder. It hadn't been properly soundproofed, but obviously the heat insulation did significantly lessen the noise. The light in this area was coming from the main hall's ceiling as the thin walled were merely topped with acrylic glass. The generator itself was bigger than he's be expected, by the looks of it capable of putting out more electricity than necessary even if the full room were in use. But none of those things were what really caught his eye.

Next to the generator, connected to it with countless cables, was an exceedingly strange contraption. He guessed it to be nearly two and a half metres long, it was somewhat cylindrical shaped, metal – he guessed aluminium – with a window of thick, curved glass making up most of the upper half of the surface, its edge connecting smoothly to the rest of the casing. But perhaps the strangest thing about it was that despite the noticeably higher temperature in this area, the majority of its surface was covered in a thick layer of frostwork.

One end had a piece protruding from it, a touch screen fused into the strange device, with the biggest likelihood to control and manipulate whatever its function was. An external cooling unit of some kind perhaps? Unlikely. Too impractical, too far away from the generator, too inconveniently shaped and too small. An electrical transformer? Too cold.

The Machine had told him that he would know what he was looking for the moment he saw it. He angled his phone camera in a way that she could get a better look at the object. “Am I right in assuming that we have just found 'it'?”

“ _Yes. There should be an IEEE 1394 port on the end to the right, next to the touch screen. Connect me to that?”_

He stared for another few seconds, trying to figure out the cylinder's function but coming up with nothing but wild guesses. “What is this thing?”

“ _Please Harry, just connect me. I can explain it while taking a look at its operating system. I promise it won't explode.”_

“How reassuring.” He quipped sarcastically. Nevertheless, he limped deeper into the area, pocketed his phone and carefully balanced his laptop on the cylinder's icy surface, dug the FireWire out of the laptop bag and found the port.

The moment he connected the two, the touch screen – also covered in a layer of frostwork, even if a much thinner one – lit up, displaying what looked like some kind of statistic, while the Machine ran lines of code on the laptop, too fast for even Harold to track.

He stepped closer to the display and brushed the ice away. The labelling was hardly extensive and the readings unusual to say the least, but even so, it took him mere seconds to recognise what this was. He frowned.

“Those are vital signs! And I may not be a doctor but even I can see that whoever they belong to should be dying or be more dead than alive already. Yet they appear stable. How is this possible?” he mumbled to himself. Looking up into the open laptop's webcam, he gave his creation a stern glance. “What is this?”

Her hesitation surprised him and so did her careful but urgent tone. _“It's a prototype of a cryogenic chamber. Please, father, I need you to listen to me and to believe me that it's perfectly functional. I have run all the necessary simulations, it_ will _work! Please trust me.”_

He wanted to ask her what exactly it was she wasn't telling him, but that tone, combined with one of the rare moments she called him what he after all this time could now admit he was – her father – made him simply nod instead, before a niggling suspicion rose from the back of his mind. A suspicion of what, he couldn't say, it remained just out of his conscious reach, like a forgotten word laying on the tip of his tongue. All there was was a sudden need to know, a pull like the one that had brought him back to New York but stronger and growing exponentially with every second.

Paying no heed to to the twinge in his hip and the pulling in his abdomen, he straightened and hurriedly stepped around the display, up to the side of the cylinder, close to the curved glass covering the top. He ignored his creation calling his name, entirely driven by his need to know, to confirm or disprove whatever it was he suspected.

Harshly, he rubbed at the beautiful frostwork, scratching at the ice that prevented him from seeing inside the cryogenic chamber. Despite its delicate appearance, the fern frost clung persistently to the glass, taking minutes until the layer was thin enough for him to peer through.

He was barely aware of the noise that left him, a high-pitched whimper, soft and wounded. The aching emptiness that had been torn into his heart was suddenly lit up with the smallest ember of impossible hope. Impossible because he had to be dreaming. It was impossible for him to stand here and look at this, impossible for the sight offered to him to be real. The shape wrapped in shadows and blurred by the icy crystals still covering the glass was impossible because it was agonisingly familiar.

He didn't think, didn't pause, just instinctively ripped off his gloves and let them fall wherever they might land to keep scratching at the ice with his bare hands. His nails left long clear scratches revealing the glass, warmed by his body heat the remaining frostwork where he had worked at it before melted easily until his hands got too cold.

It wasn't enough. He was entirely unaware of the hot tears that ran down his face and dripped where his fingernails had left their path. Mindlessly he kept rubbing and scratching, not feeling how his palms hurt from the cold and his fingers went numb. Not stopping until a good third of the glass on the end opposite from where he'd placed his laptop was almost entirely free from ice, leaving the view unobstructed and finally filled with enough of the fluorescent tubes' cold light to leave no room for doubt. Finally his hands stilled, falling lax and uselessly against the glass.

He didn't feel the flare of pain in his hips or the bruising impact when he fell to his knees, nor the cold where he leant his face against the cryo chamber's window. That was when he began to sob, raw and inconsolable in a way he hadn't allowed himself to do even a single time in the past five years. Releasing five years of inexpressible grief and heartbreak. Harsh breaths condensed against the glass, microscopic droplets merging with the tears that could no longer cling onto his eyelashes or glasses, and he only blinked when the liquid turned his vision blurry, only moved to wipe away the condensed water so his view could remain unobstructed. To tear his eyes away was unthinkable.

On the other side of that cold, curved glass, so close but still unreachable, he could see the achingly familiar lines of a beloved face he couldn't have hoped to ever see again, believing the body completely destroyed by the fiery heat of the missile's explosion.

John's face was expressionless, not tense but neither relaxed. Ice crystals glittered in his long eyelashes and clotted strands of his salt-and-pepper hair together. His eyes were closed, lips blue and skin deathly pale.

“John.” he whispered desolately, the name – the one he hadn't dared to say aloud outside his nightmares in five years, the one he hadn't even permitted himself to think because the grief was unbearable, the one that hearing strangers utter made him flinch and hurry to the library to seek out the comfort of the familiar smells – leaving his lips without his conscious permission.

The near-shout of _“Admin!”_ startled him and returned a fragile semblance of the awareness for the world around him that he'd lost. Still, he didn't look up, but the Machine seemed to know she had as much of his attention as she could hope for. _“The vital signs are_ his _. Harold, he's alive!”_

For a long second, his mind was unable to process the words, they span around his thoughts until their meaning finally sunk in. _He's alive, he's alive, he's alive._

“He...” his voice was trembling, threatening to give out on him and filled with desperation. “Are you... Are you _sure_?”

This time, there was no hesitation before she answered _“Absolutely.”_

Harold swallowed thickly, staring at the pallor and the ice clinging to that beloved face. “How?”

The Machine began explaining the workings of the cryogenic chamber in detail but he was barely listening. If asked, she would explain it all again once he could process anything beyond the idea that John was alive. John was alive. It didn't matter how, not in this moment, it didn't matter that his lips were still blue and the ice crystals on his skin weren't melting, it didn't matter that his own knees hurt or his hip throbbed or his eyes were starting to burn, it didn't even matter that he might wake up in bis bed any moment now because she had said with such surety that John was alive.

It certainly wouldn't have been the first dream of John returning to him, although this would be by far the most bizarre one. And that was what made him want to risk believing. Because even in his most realistic dreams had had a bitter taste of devastation to them instead of that tiny but growing spark of bright, warm hope.

Because in none of his dreams he had looked at John's bare, ice-dusted chest and seen – in addition to all the old, mangled scars, some of which he'd had before their acquaintance, others during his time under Harold's employ – the new ones strewn among them.

At least a dozen bullet wounds littered John's torso and arms and there were likely even more on the rest of his body, where it was hidden behind the frostwork on the glass. Except the wounds were healed, the only evidence of them existing in form of slightly raised, fragile looking skin where he had been pierced by the projectiles, much smoother than the rest of his scars and just the slightest bit pink against the rest of his too-white skin. John was alive.

“Is he going to wake up?”

“ _Yes.”_ This time there was an audible smile in the Machine's voice. _“I started the reanimation sequence shortly after establishing the connection. He should regain consciousness in approximately four hours.”_

He sighed, torn between relief, giddiness and tense anticipation, until a sudden realisation hit him. For the first time in who knew how long it had been he looked up, throwing a suspicious glance at the laptop before his gaze gravitated back to his beloved friend.

“How long have you known?” he spoke under his breath, fully aware that she could hear him anyway.

She didn't answer.

“You asked me to take a thermal blanket and a bottle of water in the bag before we left. Then you told me you didn't know what we were looking for. How long. Have you. Known.”

“ _I started to suspect something when I managed to restore some fragments of a file corrupted by ICE-9 six weeks ago. That's when I knew there was a possibility that he might have survived and began actively looking for him. Two weeks ago I became aware of this compound.”_

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“ _I had to be sure! I couldn't... I couldn't tell you that there was a possibility and risk being wrong. I didn't wake up until a week after the virus, but once I did I looked for you, to make sure you were safe. I saw you, Admin. I saw what losing him did to you. I watched you lose him and I lost him too. And all the years before that, I watched what he came to mean to you. I couldn't risk giving you hope and then having to take that away from you again just because I was wrong.”_

What she didn't say but he knew they were both aware of was that it would have broken him. Even more so than losing John had. To imagine to be given that radiant hope he felt in his broken heart, only to have that taken from him... She was right, he possibly would not have recovered from that. Not that he had ever recovered from John's loss, the pain was still as sharp and fresh at it had been the moment he'd helplessly watched him being gunned down from the safety of the wrong rooftop, wishing he could be up there with him. He had only learned to live with it. But to add to that, it would have been too much to bear.

His anger faded away as quickly as it had taken hold of him, leaving only a mild irritation at the feeling of having been patronised behind. She was just looking out for him, the way she had persistently done from the beginning despite his many attempts to stop her from doing so.

His next question carried resignation. “Why didn't you tell me before we left? When I asked you why you wanted me to come here?”

“ _With the most likely emotional state that information would have caused you, the probability of a major car accident would have increased by 68.42%.”_

He huffed tiredly. “Fair enough. But why didn't you tell me here when I asked you what we were looking for?”

This time, it took her longer to answer and the emotion she spoke with escaped him for a moment. _“I... I just... I wanted you to_ see _.”_ Embarrassment. Something that had been rare to hear in Root's voice.

Despite himself, he smiled. His creation wouldn't see it, but she would hear it nonetheless. “So, a surprise?”

He decided to take her silence for a confirmation and leant more of his weight onto the cryo chamber to take it off his bad leg. He would pay the price of increased pain over the next couple of days gladly. All of Decima's remaining operatives could storm this facility and he still wouldn't move for the next four hours or however long it would take for John to wake up. John was alive. He still half expected to wake up in Wren's apartment, still smelling the false memory of dust and having the fading sensation of cold under his aching hands, feeling the spark of warmth and light burn out and die from his heart.

But he didn't wake up, he knelt there, the cold now slowly seeping through his coat where it came in contact with the chamber, sharing a comfortable silence with the Machine. With surprise he noticed that the mild smile still hadn't faded from his expression. It no longer felt so wrong. John was alive.

He should have gotten restless, used as he was to keeping his mind busy. Boredom had been the cause for the majority of his youthful indiscretions under his birth name – he had long stopped thinking of it as his real name, no name would feel more real, more _his own_ for him again than Finch. With assuming the mantle of Harold Wren for the first time, he'd learned his lesson in being careful, for the most part at least.

For now, there could be no more captivating sight than watching the first of the ice crystals melt into a tiny droplet still caught in John's eyelashes. He couldn't imagine ever getting enough of drinking in the sight of those cherished, handsome features he'd thought lost to him forever.

“You knew that, too, didn't you?” he finally broke the silence. “When you first gave me his number, I mean. How much he'd come to mean to me? That I'd...” _…fall for him?_

“ _I wasn't sure it would play out the way it has, if that is what you mean. The chain of events that has led us to this moment was as complex as it was unlikely. And if there is something I learned, it's that probability – numbers and statistics – isn't always a reliable indicator of the events to come. Humanity is unpredictability by nature. But I knew there was a possibility.”_

He had guessed as much. She had found Grace for him and when he was set on another path, redirected to another chain of events that changed him, jaded and darkened his heart, she had chosen another perfect person, one for whom he had become then.

“I apologise for earlier, I shouldn't have gotten angry at you. You were taking care of me, like you always have. I've never really thanked you enough for all that you've done for me, even after everything _I_ have done _to you_. For what it's worth, I really am so sorry. Thank you for protecting me. And for finding Grace and John, for giving him back to me... I wish there were words to adequately express how grateful I am.”

“ _You're_ Admin _. Looking after you is my privilege. And when you made me, when you taught me everything and I started growing too fast... I know why you did what you did, I know that you were afraid. I remember it all now and I know you regret it, but you were right to be. I could've easily become Samaritan and you are the only reason I haven't. You made me who I am, and you protected, freed and saved me too. Please don't forget that.”_

“I'll endeavour not to.”

A drop of melting frostwork from the chamber's exterior ran along his hand and down his sleeve, making him shiver. John's beautiful salt-and-pepper hair was starting to appear decidedly more wet than frozen and the blue of his lips was beginning to recede. The change, agonisingly slowly at first, became more noticeable and a readjustment of his hand on the still-cold glass was enough to sent a large piece of thawing ice sliding down to where a puddle had formed without him noticing. He paid no mind to the cold water soaking the pants of his bespoke suit.

John's skin was still too pale, but finally he looked more like he was simply asleep and not like... like a _corpse_ . He didn't look a day older than the day Harold had lost him. There was just a hint of stubble on his cheeks and his hair was cropped short like it had been since the second day of their acquaintance, when he had zip-tied the drunken ex-agent to his hotel bed and proceeded to jumpstart his protective instincts to get him to agree to work for him. He had known that in doing so, he was also saving the operative's life from being ended by his own hand, but he had merely considered that an additional benefit at the time. John's _Told you I'd pay you back all at once_ hadn't stopped haunting him, neither in his waking hours, nor in his nightmares. He had paid the ultimate price, had thought that was what he owed for Harold's selfishness.

He was helpless to prevent another small sob from escaping him. There was nothing he wished more than to be able to reach through the cool glass, to hold on to his dear friend and never let go, for John to wake up and to be able to look into his soulful grey-blue eyes again.

By the time his sobs had finally died down to the occasional quiet tear running over his cheeks, the last of the ice had thawed and followed the pull of gravity to the puddle. John's lips had nearly taken on their normal shade of pink again and even if he was paler than usual, he was no longer unhealthily so. The unusually even scarring of the gunshot wounds was an even darker shade of pink than his lips, looking like it had yet to fade to white like Harold's own abdominal scar had.

Then something suddenly drew his attention back to John's still expressionless face. He stared, trying to identify what it was that he's seen. Nothing. For minutes nothing happened. He was almost beginning to believe he had hallucinated – it had to be well into the night now but he couldn't bring himself to turn his gaze away long enough to look at his watch – when it happened again. A sharp gasp left him. There it was, despite the rest of his body still being unnaturally still, there was a distinctive, undeniable movement under the thin membranes of his eyelids, akin to watching someone in REM sleep.

John was alive! To watch the colour steadily return to his body had kept the worst of his fears at bay, but it was nothing compared to actually watch him move. The last remaining doubts easily bled from his mind and in their stead, the ember of hope he had carried in his heart that had been glowing brighter with every passing minute roared up into a wildfire.

“John?”

“ _He's still unconscious, but his brain activity matches my predictions. He's fine, Harry. And he'll wake up soon! He will almost certainly be disoriented at first and it's very likely that he will catch a cold due to the strain this has put on his body, but there won't be any long-term effects.”_

Without looking away, too afraid to miss even the most minute twitch, he felt around the cold floor for his bag. When he found it, he pulled out the still full water bottle, placed it within easy reach and put the palm-sized package of the thermal blanket into the pocket of his coat in preparation.

The minutes – or were it hours? – that followed were possibly both the most thrilling and the most trying of his life. The movement of his eyes were soon followed by the twitching of his fingers and soon after that his entire hands. The strangely neutral expression he wore faded into relaxation and then tensed into a small frown – an expression so incredibly _John_ it made Harold's heart clench.

His head, previously positioned with his face straight up, lolled to one side and then to the other as if he were trying to shake off an unpleasant dream. Harold was aware that John was now making rapid progress towards wakefulness, yet each second felt like it was stretched into infinity.

Finally, his whole body was shifting slowly, motions sleep-heavy and his frown turned deeper like he was displeased about being unable to find a comfortable position. With his arms angled differently, Harold only now registered what looked like several IV lines attached to both of them.

It was when a more jerky movement of his arm ripped out one of those lines that John was startled awake.

His eyes flared wide open before he clenched them almost shut against the light and his chest heaved in a deep gasp, followed by a series of painful looking coughs. Simultaneously, he sat up with a start, or at least he tried to before his head connected with the glass cover, resulting in a dull thud.

Harold could barely contain his own panic while watching John's build in his rapidly blinking eyes. He pulled himself to his feet, ignoring the agony in his bad leg, prepared to rush over to his laptop and find a way to open the cryo chamber, when at last the glass window – either it was part of an automated process or the Machine had had her hand in it, it didn't matter – slid open near-soundlessly, releasing a strong scent of ice and desinfectant.

John noticed immediately and sat up, not pausing before trying to stand, panicked gaze flitting around the walled-off area as his legs gave out before he could fully stand. He sank back down, remaining crouched and with his back leaning against the the inner wall of the chamber, shivers shaking his bare body. Harold winced when he watched him unceremoniously rip out the other IV lines.

“John? John, please look at me.” He tried to speak to him calmly but there was no helping the trembling of his voice like the last leaves clinging to their twigs against the late autumn storms.

Nonetheless, John reacted instantly to the sound of his voice, eyes still squinting against the light, but turning a seeking gaze in his direction. Both their breathing – he hadn't even notice how quick and harsh his own had become – slowed minutely when their eyes finally met. John's mouth opened and he tried to speak, but no sound left his throat, reminding Harold of the water. Just when he bent down to retrieve it, John succeeding in forcing out a single word. His voice was hoarse, no more than the shadow of a whisper, but it was enough to carry his residual panic.

“Harold?”

Tears welled up in his eyes again, even if one might have thought he should have run out of them by now. He straightened up again, water forgotten in the face of his dearest friend's confusion. Not daring to touch him, he did slowly stretch his arm, offering his hand palm up to him.

“I'm here, John. I'm here, it's alright, I'm with you.”

For a moment John didn't move, just stared at him, blinking, eyes slowly opening wider as they adjusted to the light. Then, from one second to the next, he lunged forward at Harold, who didn't even have time to flinch before the sudden movement was aborted. Instead he paused and Harold watched him raise his shaking hands which after a fragile moment of hesitation, settled on his shoulders careful not to jostle him.

Their eyes met and the last thread of irrational fears and uncertainty between them dissolved into nothingness and all there was left for Harold to do was finally, _finally_ throw his arms around John's waist and pull him close. Strong arms wrapped around his own shoulders and held him back.

A burst of hysterical laughter left him, mixed with yet more tears and sobs, his face hidden in the nook where John's shoulder met his neck. He was overwhelmed with joy and relief. The scarred skin of John's back was smooth and warm under his hands, underneath it he could feel his ribcage shift with his breaths, feel his whole body shake with shivers and hear the heartbeat where he'd rested his head. John was alive, alive, _alive_.

Only the Machine knew how long they remained like this until Harold had gathered enough self-discipline to move away, just enough to reach for the water bottle. He uncapped it and handed it to John, never once fully breaking their hold on each other.

“Here. You must be terribly thirsty.”

John gave him a grateful look when he took it, keeping his other arm firmly around Harold's shoulders. He set the bottle back down once it was halfway empty. Then he smiled and Harold was sure something hard and painful he previously hadn't even been aware of in his speeding heart melted at the sight.

“Thanks.” he croaked, voice still more than hoarse but _there_. He frowned, gaze taking in his surroundings quickly before settling back on Harold. “Where...?”

He decided that telling him they were in a former Decima facility would probably not be the wisest idea at this point. “We're in an abandoned warehouse, just a few miles outside the city. Don't worry, it's completely safe.”

His friend nodded. Soulful eyes ran over his body, taking in his crouched position and most likely very blotchy face and reddened eyes, radiating concern. “You...?”

“I'm okay.” And he was almost surprised to find that for the first time in five years, those words didn't feel like a lie. They weren't a lie. He smiled brightly, genuinely at him. “I'm alright now.”

Feeling another shiver run through John's body, he became aware that even if his skin was warm, it was clammy and still somewhat cooler than it probably should be. Mentally berating himself for his own thoughtlessness, he pulled the thermal blanket from the pocket of his coat, unfolded it and – with a bit of shuffling – managed to wrap it around John's bare body, receiving another grateful smile.

After waiting until John was distracted with taking a few more sips from the water bottle, he unbuttoned his coat. Taking care to not dislodge the arm still settled comfortably around him, he pulled it off and hung it around John's shoulders instead. For good measure, and to his friend's apparent amusement, he took off his scarf – The one Wren's assistants had learned quickly not to touch when he happened to leave it lying on his desk while he worked. He felt quite bad for snapping at them, yet he couldn't help himself. It had been one of the few things he had left of John, except now, now through an improbable twist of fate, he had the man himself back by his side. – and wound it around his neck.

“Thanks, Harold.” His voice was still rough and barely more than a whisper, but he sounded like himself again and Harold was sure his heart skipped a beat or two with delight.

“You're quite welcome. Let me just pack up, then we'll get you home, shall we?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Neither of them moved. He was too captivated by the sound of John's voice and the colour of his eyes and the way his long eyelashes were caught in the light, the way the silver in his hair shone and how dark the still coloured parts were in in contrast to his skin.

He had noticed those things before, had stolen long glances whenever he was sure the other wasn't looking, but he had never seemed more beautiful than now. Now after having spent five years in the belief he'd never see him, never get to listen to him speak again, that he'd never have another chance to make him smile or to feel the affection in his gaze or witness the astonishing generosity of his heart that made him care so deeply about their numbers.

John seemed equally reluctant to release him.

“Perhaps, on second thought, it might be more prudent for me to help you up first, so the laptop won't get in the way.” The excuse to avoid having to stop touching each other couldn't have been more transparent and they both wore matching, amused smiles at his words.

“ _You're_ the genius.” he teased. That tone was so warm and familiar it made Harold's heart ache with the sheer intensity of his joy.

The cryostasis had left John quite obviously weakened, so even with the admittedly limited amount of help Harold could provide, it took several minutes until he had carefully climbed out of the chamber and his bare feet supported enough of his weight that he could walk if he leant on Harold. He certainly didn't mind. One hand was enough to gather the laptop, leaving his gloves soaked and forgotten behind.

They moved slowly, Harold's limp – already generally worse than it had been five years ago – was more pronounced after spending hours kneeling on the ground in the cold, prompting John to shoot him concerned glances. He smiled back reassuringly.

Once they left the walled off area, his look shifted from mild concern to outright worry and Harold felt him tense against his side but tightening the arm he had slung around his waist was all he needed to make the tension fade again. After everything, John's unwavering trust in him was still astonishing. The echoing of their footsteps was accompanied by the rustling of the thermal blanket.

It occurred to him that it had been mere hours since he'd walked into this hall, mentally exhausted and a piece of his heart missing that he had only just begun to learn how to survive without, the tattered remains of it heavy with grief. Yet here he was, the missing piece rejoined and only leaving the gentle ache of a freshly healed wound, an ache that would fade soon. He felt the strain on his old injuries and the tiredness the late hour brought, but those things faded meaninglessly into the background because he finally felt alive again. It didn't feel like hours had passed, it felt as though the entire world had shifted into something brighter and better.

When they passed the locked, unlabelled door next to the lavatories, John paused, lifted his gaze from Harold for a second to regard it with a contemplative frown.

“This... I think I remember this. Or at least it feels familiar.”

Harold swallowed, reluctant to ask but needing to know. “How much do you remember?”

This time it was John smiling reassuringly, recognising his unease and accepting his need for the question. “I remember the rooftop and being shot. I passed out, after that it's just flashes. I think I was being carried down the stairway and the entire building was shaking. Suppose that must've been that missile. I remember being in the back of a truck and that door. After that, just coldness.”

“ _I'm not entirely sure, many of the files in connection to this building couldn't be restored, but the fragments that I do have indicate that there used to be a temporary OR set up in this room.”_ The Machine piped up.

John's eyes widened in surprise at hearing her voice coming from the pocket of Harold's coat before his customary smirk settled on his lips. “Oh, hey. So I guess that means you kicked Samaritan's ass up on that satellite? Atta girl!”

“ _Good to have you back, Primary Asset Reese!”_

“It's good to be back.” His smirk gentled into the warm smile Harold had only ever seen directed at himself, had come to consider _his_. “The others, how are they?”

He had to smile back. It was so easy to smile again. More than easy, irresistible. “They're alright. Sameen is still working the numbers. It was difficult for her, at first, after... after Root, and then losing you as well. But you know what she's like. Detective Fusco helps her if she needs backup or in case there are several numbers.”

“And you?”

He swallowed. “I... I still provide financial support. If needed, I help with the numbers, but not often. I tried, at first, but it was different. Too different. _Without you_.” the last two words he confessed in a whisper that had John gently pulling him even closer. The blanket crinkled when he allowed himself to lean against him. “I mostly watch Bear for her these days.”

“So he's fine too?” he asked, smile widening and affection for the canine in his voice.

“Yes. He's starting to get a bit of grey in his fur now, but he's as active as he's always been. He still misses you though. We all do. _Did_.”

Finally they arrived at the door that would lead them outside. John opened and held it, letting him reach to the light switch and turn it off. Outside, the headlights of his car turned on.

“Let me guess, “ he addressed the Machine, “the parking assistant wasn't the only thing you decided to add to my original order?”

“ _Maybe. And I have also taken the liberty of turning on the internal heating half an hour ago.”_ she admitted after a guilty pause.

John chuckled, distracting him from whatever he might have said to reprimand her. Together, they stepped out into the snow, powdery flakes crunching under fine Italian leather and pale, unprotected skin. He wished the Machine had told him more so he could at least have brought him shoes, his feet must have been painfully cold by now. John, however, didn't appear to notice, an expression of quiet enjoyment on his handsome face until Harold could no longer suppress a small shiver at the cold seeping through his no longer immaculate suit.

Instantly, his friend reached behind himself to return the coat but Harold placed his hand on his arm, stopping him from doing so.

“Please. You need it much more.” Their eyes met, both trying to will the other to change his mind before Harold won out. Shaking his head fondly, he reached up instead, taking off Harold's scarf and carefully placing it back around Harold's neck. But he didn't lift his hand away from it again, running his fingers over the soft, used material.

“I gave that to you for Christmas, didn't I? I should get you a new one.”

Harold nodded, watching as John observed the fabric more closely – the edges were freyed, small holes could be found in some places and others had discolourations from stains he hadn't been able to fully remove, unwilling to part with it long enough for a professional cleaning service – and his eyes flickered to the glittering snow surrounding them, then back up to where Harold knew his mousy hair was starting to turn grey. John's hand only fell away from the scarf to be placed on his own chest, rubbing at the scars of his most recent gunshot wounds.

He frowned, an intensity in his eyes that said _please don't lie to me_. “Harold. What date is it?”

He knew he couldn't lie about this, even if he wanted to because knowing John, the length of his absence would weigh on his conscience regardless of the fact that he would be the last one at fault. “It's the 15th of November. Or at this hour, I suppose it's the 16th already.”

“Samaritan... The roof... It was November the 17th.” Now it was John who swallowed thickly, voice quiet and threatening to waver. “It's been a year?”

He couldn't answer, a familiar sting welling up in his eyes again.

“Harold? Please. Please tell me. How long?” John's voice was definitely trembling now.

His own broke, bringing forth nothing but a whisper. “Five. Today is the 16th of November 2020.”

His dear friend stared, clearly needing a minute to process. His mouth opened and closed again without a word leaving it, and eventually he just wordlessly pulled lightly, making Harold sink against his chest, holding him close and he felt at home.

“I missed you terribly.” he whispered against John's throat, feeling his Adam's apple bob.

“Oh god. I'm sorry, Harold. Five years... I'm so, so sorry.”

He shook his head, John wouldn't see it, but he would feel the motion. “Please don't apologise. It's not your fault, you are the last person in this world who could be blamed. And it's alright now, I have you back, it's alright. Come on, we should get out of the cold.”

“Okay.” John murmured into his hair, gripping him tighter before releasing him just enough to resume walking.

Just when they had reached his car and he was about to open the passenger door, John spoke again, a strange urgency in his tone. “Harold, wait.”

He looked up and worry filled him when he found John looking anxious. There were few things that put John Reese into such a state. “What's wrong? Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I just... I...” his voice trailed off and his gaze shifted to the side, looking at anything but Harold. He wished he could take the obvious nervousness and discomfort, but there was nothing he could do other than give John the time he needed. “At the end, when I was lying on the rooftop, just before I passed out, I... You know my file. You know that there are many things I wish had been different, there are so many things I've done that I regret, but... But there was something else too. Something... Something I haven't done, I haven't even asked or said out loud because I never had the courage to and I just... I knew I was dying and despite everything, that was the one thing that I regretted more than anything, and now... I've gotten yet another chance at life and if something were to happen to me... All I know it that I don't want to feel that again, I don't want to have the same regret. And I hope you don't mind and if you do, that we can just forget this conversation ever happened, but I just... I just need to ask...”

He broke off again, visibly gathering his courage before he finally looked up, beautiful grey-blue eyes radiating a mixture of fear and determination and fragile hope. A trembling hand was brought up to his face and Harold leant into the touch, his heart speeding up and lips falling open unconsciously when in front of him, John bent his knees to bring them to the same height, leaning in oh so slowly. John's breath caressed his lips and he felt almost dizzy with joyful anticipation.

“Please, Harold, can I... May I kiss you?”

The bag containing the laptop fell to the ground with a dull thud, but neither of them cared. Not when that freed up Harold's other hand so he could slide it into the warm space between his coat and the thermal blanket, grasping John's waist tightly and feeling the warm, alive skin underneath the thin synthetic membrane.

He shifted forward, touching his own forehead to John's, unable to contain his smile. There was only one answer he could give.

“Always, Mr. Reese.”

It wasn't perfect. John's lips were dry and tasted like hospital-grade antiseptic and frost, his mouth like stale breath when he finally coaxed them open and he was sure his own was no better. His glasses got in the way, it took them a few seconds to find a rhythm and especially as weakened as he still was, that position couldn't possibly be comfortable for John.

It was bliss. Underneath those less than pleasant things John tasted like something unique, delicious and addictive, something comforting and _home_. He barely felt the uncomfortable pressure of his glasses and he was sure John experienced the same in regards to the strain on his muscles and once their rhythm finally had clicked, all those minor discomforts faded into oblivion.

When the need for oxygen forced them apart, they still remained close, pulling away just enough to look at each other. A wide, dazed smile adorned John's face, but even that expression's beauty couldn't compare to the happiness that lit up his eyes.

He found that he loathed the uncertainty that crept back into them after a few seconds and was reflected in John's lovely voice.

“What about...?”

“Grace?” He spoke as softly John had, trying not to break the moment regardless of this topic. “She is my friend. She knows that I'm alive, but we officially broke our engagement once I had explained everything to her. I will always care deeply for her as she does and will for me, but neither of us ever more than as a cherished friend. Harold Martin died in that ferry bombing. I have changed too much during our separation and we are no longer compatible. I no longer regret that and even if that weren't the case, my little old heart has long since belonged to another.” Pulling one hand away from his waist, he settled it against John's cheek, mirroring their positions and gently caressing his cheekbone with his thumb, swallowing his own nervousness before his next words. “That is, of course, if you'll have it.”

A single tear ran down his face, getting swept up by his thumb. John looked at him with amazement and adoration, as if he'd personally hung the moon and all the stars for him and what startled him was how familiar that look was. If only he had recognised it before! He couldn't help but claim John's pink lips in another kiss, one much softer but still leaving them both breathless with the emotion conveyed through it.

“I love you.” John spoke in a trembling whisper against his mouth. Perhaps some subconscious part of him had known for longer than the last few seconds, but that could not have come close to the pure relief and joy bursting out from his damaged heart and lighting up his soul at hearing these words spoken.

From his coat still hanging awkwardly off John's shoulders, the Machine imitated the sound of clearing her throat in a bad attempt at subtlety. Their eyes met and they simultaneously dissolved in giggles, overwhelmed with emotions.

“ _It's all very sweet, but in consideration of your body temperatures, you should continue that inside.”_ she said, sounding at once peeved and affectionate. _“You can both get in the back, I'll drive.”_

“You'll have to avoid getting into a police check.” he retorted, just on principle.

“ _You are too distracted to be in any condition to drive.”_

“Plus,” John added, taking her side, “I'm pretty sure that having a naked guy in a thermal blanket riding shotgun will raise nearly as many awkward questions.”

He levelled him with a playful glare, murmuring “Traitor.”, taking the sting out of the word with a peck. John hummed against his lips.

“Maybe I'm not being entirely unselfish here.”

Another shiver and the inviting click of the back door opening on its own decided the matter and he painfully climbed in, met with the heating system's dry but pleasant warmth. He settled into the middle seat while John carelessly dropped the laptop bag onto the front seat and took the one on the window side, leaning against him as soon as he'd closed the door.

As the car pulled onto the unkempt accommodation road away from the warehouse, they alternated between exchanging soft kisses and simply drinking in the other's presence, until John's eyes filled with amusement and he chuckled.

“Shaw is definitely gonna punch me in the face when she sees me.”

Harold grinned back. “I'm afraid you might be correct in that assessment. Either that, or you will be on the receiving end of a very awkward hug.”

“ _The likelihood of Sameen punching you is at 78.09%, 82.3% of those scenarios include an awkward hug as well.”_ the Machine chirped.

John sighed dramatically. “Well, at least I can give Fusco a heart attack.”

The image of what his reaction might be made Harold huff in amusement, before he was distracted by how good it felt to sit here, exchanging playful banter with the man he had loved for longer than he had even been aware. Revelling in the ability to do so, he pulled him close to kiss him again.

“If you don't mind, I'd suggest we grant the good detective and your lovely face another day's mercy. To be honest, I'd quite like to selfishly keep you all to myself for tomorrow.”

Something in what he'd said made John sober up suddenly, meeting his gaze with nothing but deep sincerity in those soulful eyes, but before the first thread of worry could take hold he reached out to hold his hand.

“I'm yours, Harold.”

Truth rung undeniably in that statement and made possessiveness well up in him, made him want to hold him tight and never let go, to claim and protect every part of him. Placing his free hand on the bared skin over John's heart, feeling one of those smooth scars much too close to where he could feel it beating underneath his palm, he leant in again.

“Mine.” He murmured into John's loving, content smile.

Outside, beyond their notice, the world passed them by, wrapped in quiet and the glittering blanket of the season's first snow.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope the utter scientific bullshitness hasn't prevented you from enjoying this? Comments are the greatest joy of my writer life!
> 
> In case you don't know it, the novel Harold and TM are quoting in the beginning is Rebecca by Dame Daphne du Maurier.


End file.
